Starched as hardback covers unclosing on these shelves holding us up.
Authors all, carer’s too – with dedications before the content’s even read,
Each one’s a page somehow unwritten still, as if a single word’s yet to be said.

Selecting one, an imaginary note slips out, and falls upside down onto the floor,
Some lover’s secret? Something missed? Something someone might wish was more?
A pencilled thought beneath a poem, a list of jobs, someday’s to do’s or some’s to don’ts,

Life’s moments, each a medal’s worth, for service rendered to dreams and hope.